Alabaster Lover
by ratohnhaketons
Summary: Aveline's life is nothing but endless parties and ruffled dresses. For her, the arrival of a new manservant is nothing but another game. Yet despite the seemingly infinite fun, the threat of revolution hangs over her head. (AU - French Revolution)
1. ONE

**PART ONE: Ignorance is Bliss**  
**In which there is a new addition**

Aveline strode slowly behind the others, her silk-covered arm linked with that of Marie's. Marie, blonde curls bouncing underneath her blue feathered hat, skipped alongside her. Her eyes wandered to the fluttering of the pink flowers that adorned the straight hedges. Aveline started at her feet, watching the pink slippers dig into the path. The crunch her foot made as it connected with the gravel was a welcome distraction from the other girls' boring conversation. She loved Morgane dearly, but she needed to find something new to talk about.

Morgane chattered eagerly in Josephine's diamond-encrusted ear – something about men as usual. Élise was no doubt just as bored as Aveline, but she kept her mouth shut. She always did. She was nothing but Josephine's lackey, her plaything. Then again, everyone was Josephine's plaything. Even her own sister, the little girl fiercely attached to Aveline's arm, was nothing but a mere doll.

"You are excited too, aren't you Aveline?"

Aveline's gaze drifted from her feet and she stared blankly at Morgane. The brunette beauty chuckled.

"Dreaming again, Ava?"

Aveline shrugged. Marie tugged on her arm and pointed at some small, yellow butterflies that flew around them. Aveline smiled in wonder.

"As I was saying, it's all very exciting that Edouard is returning from America. It's been years since he left!" Josephine exclaimed. She was particularly proud of her elder brother, the heir to the Beaulieu estate. Aveline waited for the oncoming boasts

"He's been working in the colonies in _Nouvelle Orl__éans_ for years! Everything he does is to benefit France. No doubt the King will award him the highest honours when he returns."

"You've been saying this for as long as he has been working there and yet there are still no awards," Morgane quipped.

Josephine rolled her eyes.

"It will be so nice to see Edouard again! I wonder how handsome he has become," Morgane said, smirking at the woman at her side.

"That's my brother you're fawning over, Morgane!"

"I can't help that your family's good looks skipped you, Josephine."

Aveline laughed, clutching at her fan. Looking over her shoulder, Morgane winked, giggling madly. Josephine swatted Morgane's arm with her own pink and feathery fan.

"I hope he has presents," Marie sighed, playing with the long ribbons on her bonnet.

"Of course he will have something for you, petite." Aveline replied, stroking the girl's arm. Marie looked up at Aveline, grinning.

"Maybe he's brought back some strong, handsome men."

"The only men he would be bringing back, Morgane, are grumpy English in chains." Élise stated dully.

"Or soldiers!"

The entire group (minus Elise) burst into laughter until an exuberant squeal from Marie brought their attention to a carriage slowly being driven down the road next to the gardens. The carriage stopped suddenly, causing the girls to twitter. All but Aveline. Marie had released her from her grip and she stood back, watching the other blankly. She didn't get the same sort of excitement as them, probably because the return of Édouard brought nothing but exclusion and insults.

And oh was she looking forward to that.

A lithe man in a coat covered with frills and laces stepped out of the heavily decorated carriage. He stood tall, though he was barely as tall as the footman, and walked towards the group with his head held high. Another man followed, taller, but slumped and shuffling. It was the posture of defeat, of submission. Aveline's brow furrowed. The two men soon reached them. Josephine's face lit up at the arrival of her dear, elder brother.

"Edouard!"

Josephine gathered up her brother into her arms, fan dropping onto the grass below. Marie followed suit and wrapped herself around her siblings. Edouard pried the two off him and greeted the others. Each girl gave him a curt bow. Morgane took hold of Aveline's wrist and pulled her forward.

"And who might be the tall, _dark_ stranger standing behind _cher Edouard_?" she murmured into her friend's ear. "He looks like one of those Indians in the etchings we've received."

It was true; he looked like a refined version of the savages in the sketches Edouard insisted on sending home. Tall, all muscle and bone, with a strong jaw and dark hair. It was cut short, just hanging below his ears with a braid in front. He stood silently, seeing through people but not at them, as if the trees in the distance were far more entertaining. His clothes were that of the court's servants, with polished shoes and golden trimmed waistcoat, but shrouded in a thick travelling cloak.

He looked tired.

The returned duke seemed to notice the attention the new arrival had gathered and turned to face him.

"Ah! I see you've noticed my new addition! A fine slave from the New World," Edouard bragged, grabbing the man's chin between his fine fingers and thrusting his head up. "A strong specimen. He will no doubt be a great help around the house. Of course, he is _my _personal manservant."

The girls sigh in awe as Edouard released his servant. The man glowered at his master, but the duke was too busy explaining to his sisters of how he 'valiantly fought the brute'.

"And what are we to call him?" Aveline asked.

Edouard turned to her in surprise, his arms held apart mid-gesture. It was the first time Edouard had heard her speak. The man didn't even know she was there. He blinked, thinking. Aveline rolled her eyes discreetly. He was always a dim man. Edouard looked back at his manservant.

"What did the English call you, boy?"

The servant stumbled over his words, desperately trying to understand the alien language.

"Answer me."

"Connor."

Edouard frowned. "What a strange name… Anyway, as I was saying, dear sister –"

Connor stared at Aveline curiously. The woman quickly flicked her fan open and shielded her face, retreating into her thoughts. The dull chatter of conversation flew over her ears. She soon felt herself being dragged back towards the house by Morgane with the promise of macaroons. Looking up, the servant was only a mere speck in the distance, walking back to the carriage to collect his master's luggage.


	2. TWO

**In which there is a purposefully dropped macaroon.**

The sitting room was full to bursting. Tucked away in one of the far corners of the immense Beaulieu Chateau, it was Josephine's own. Rich velvet curtains hung from the vast windows, tapestries and paintings adorned the patterned walls and a large fireplace sat in the middle of the far wall. There were cushions and stools everywhere, with three large couches and a single armchair. It was probably the gaudiest room in the house. Marie was hardly allowed in, with the exception of today (for no other reason other than her parents forced her to). It was Josephine's sanctuary, one of many, and Marie was never to enter unless she had her elder sister's permission.

Permission was hard to get.

Marie sat on the floor of the sitting room, her favourite doll in her hands and her head resting on Aveline's knees, shrouded in layers of silk and tulle that made up the woman's dress. Aveline flicked through her book, one she had already read a dozen times this week. It was something about a prince. At least, that's what the title said. The book was one of her favourites, but after the 13th read it got a little tedious. Everything was a little tedious.

For once, Morgane was just as bored of the conversation as her friend. Since Edouard's return, he and Josephine had talked of nothing but the new world. _America this, America that_. Morgane was sick of it. She twirled the long, thick ringlet of luscious brown hair, frowning at the elder Beaulieu in an attempt to make him shut up. Aveline would have laughed if it weren't for the fact that Josephine would have thrown her out in an instant, thinking she was laughing at their conversation.

Then again, was that such a bad thing?

Morgane flicked her fan hastily and angrily fluttered it in front of her face. Aveline buried her head into her book, trying to stifle her laughter. Her body shuddered.

"Are you alright?" Josephine asked, feigning concern.

Aveline straightened quickly. "Oui, Josephine!"

Josephine sighed. Morgane kicked Aveline's ankle and winked. Smirking, Aveline ran her fingers through Marie's loose curls. The young girl had refused to let the maid pin it up that morning, and the golden hair tumbled across her purple dress. She looked like one of the dolls in her room. Morgane leant over to whisper in Aveline's ear, her yellow dress rustling.

"That new servant is staring at you. I don't know for how long, but it is quite rude. Doesn't he understand that he's not allowed to even so much as look at us without our permission?"

Aveline spared a glance in Connor's direction. The manservant was standing in the corner of the room, back straight, face blank. His eyes flicked away immediately, choosing to stare at the mirror. The reflection seemed to make him angry as his face creased in distaste. Aveline pursed her lips and looked back at Morgane.

"I'm sure he was just surveying the room."

"By ogling_ you_. I swear if he does it again I shall have Edouard beat him."

Aveline tried to protest.

"I bet he thinks that because of your … _colour _… he can do whatever he likes! The nerve." Morgane grumbled.

Aveline's grip on her book tightened. She knew Morgan only meant well, but the mention of her skin made her blood boil. She was tired of it. Every ball, every gathering, the topic was brought up. She was no less the aristocrat – her mother, whilst African, had been very high ranking amongst her people. Aveline grabbed a macaroon from the dainty dish on the table in front of them, throwing the pink snack into her mouth and chewing angrily.

She relied on food the quell most of her emotions. Macaroons did the best job. They were by far her favourite thing to eat when she was sad, or happy, or at any time really.

The lady looked up once again at Connor, who was now staring at a collection of bright pink cushions to his right as if they were diseased. She wanted to talk to him. He probably had some very interesting tales to tell of his homeland, far more than _cher Edouard_ – maybe even some deathly secrets of his master's – but protocol had a habit of getting in the way.

His attention shifted to the plates of food on the table. He had helped bring them in, carefully placing them on the ornate table and retreating quickly to his assigned post in the corner. If Aveline listened hard enough, she was sure she could hear his stomach grumble. It made her chuckle.

She picked up another macaroon, this time blue, and dropped it on the floor. Everyone was far too busy to notice her quickly kick it towards the servant (Marie was steadily falling asleep on her lap). It rolled until it stopped a few inches from his feet, leaving crumbs in its path. Connor looked down at it curiously before glancing at Aveline. She opened her fan and held it in front of her face.

"_Mangez_," she mouthed.

He scanned the room quickly before snapping the macaroon between his fingers and popping it into his mouth. The initial burst of sweetness and nuts caused his face to contort and he coughed. Aveline chortled behind her painted fan.

"Silence, boy!" Edouard bellowed.

"My apologies, my lord."

"I will not have you interrupt us with your insolence."

"Yes, my lord."

Edouard sighed in frustration and made a face at his sister. Josephine sneered. Looking back at Connor, Aveline batted her eyelashes and fluttered her fan, as Morgane would with the officers. The servant merely scowled. Giggling, Aveline resumed her petting of Marie's curls.

At least she wasn't bored any more.


	3. THREE

**In which there is a close encounter of the slave kind**

The garden was quieter than usual. The groundsmen had already turned in and the birds were unusually silent. Only the rustling of leaves and the crunching of gravel accompanied Aveline as she wandered through the winding paths. She ran her fingers through the glossy green leaves of the hedge, startling the few butterflies that nestled there. They flew out of the hedge, rushing past her in a frantic attempt to flee. Frowning, Aveline withdrew her hand and tugged on her hat. She stomped forward.

She'd had enough of Josephine and that brother of hers. One more invitation to brunch and she was surely going to attack one of them. The constant belittling and snide insults were starting the grate on her. Marie was her saving grace, her angel. She would swoop in and snap her up, dragging her towards the music room to show her the latest song she learnt on the piano-forte. Yesterday it was Mozart, the day before it was Duval. The _petite fille_ was the only reason she still agreed to visit the estate.

Then there was Edouard's new manservant. An interesting character, no doubt. There was something about him that was so easy to taunt. Aveline would always find something to break his stoic exterior. Last week she tripped him in the hall with her parasol, sending the linen he was carrying flying as he crashed into the marble floor. He had sworn in a strange tongue and Aveline giggled before offering to help him stand. He simply glared and made a pathetic whine as he tried to fold the linen once more. It was the whine she enjoyed most.

But she wanted to talk to him, to show him that she wasn't the same as his master, that she was a human being. He probably hated her – for more than just getting him into constant trouble. She understood that. She would hate herself too if she were in his position. Even so, just spotting him out of the corner of her eye made her feel happy. The thoughts of taunting him once more made her days seem just a little less drab.

Aveline continued walking down the path until she reached the pavilion. It held a small bench that swung and was covered in vines that sprouted roses on a good day. It opened back onto her chateau, leaving the viewer in awe of the De Grandpré fortune and might. Aveline was sick of it and so she stretched herself out on the bench, facing the vines. She pushed on the wall of the pavilion the get her rocking slowly, but it was too difficult for her alone. The lady huffed and folded her arms.

Her pale blue dress puffed around her and bright pink heels rested upon the far arm-rest. If her old nanny was still here, she would have been scolded.

Aveline closed her eyes. In the distance she could hear footsteps. Probably the groundsmen, she thought. They got louder until they suddenly stopped.

"Excusez-moi, Madame?"

Aveline opened one eye, taking a peek at the origin of the voice. It was him – Connor – that amusing servant. Aveline stood up hurriedly and smoothed her skirt, beckoning him to come closer.

"You have a … a leaf … in your hair," he stuttered, unsure of his words as he pointed to the crown of Aveline's head.

Briefly confused, Aveline shook her head, only lodging the leaf further into her tightly curled and pinned hair. Connor tried not to laugh.

"May I?"

Aveline nodded and the servant pulled the golden leaf out of her hair.

"Thank you."

Connor smiled. "Um … Your father is out. I was told to take this directly to you."

He held out a letter stamped with the Beaulieu seal. Aveline grimaced. Still, she graciously accepted it. It was yet another invitation. But there was no way she would be getting out of this one. In two weeks it would be Marie's 13th birthday and a ball was to be held. Aveline would do anything for the young girl, but she was certainly not looking forward to the status of people she would have to encounter. Her eyes widened as her heart fluttered with anxiety.

"The young lady is quite adamant that you come."

"Of course," she chuckled nervously. "I will be there."

Connor nodded and started to walk back to the chateau, where there would have been a carriage waiting for him. Aveline quickly reached out and latched onto the sleave of his coat.

"Wait. Can you stay for a bit?"

"Do you need help?"

Aveline looked down at her feet as she let go of his coat. She couldn't think of anything, but she didn't want him to leave. She didn't want to be left alone again.

"Can you push the swing?"

Connor raised an eyebrow.

"Please? I can't do it by myself."

The servant stepped around her and positioned himself next to the swing. Aveline had to try to stop smiling as she flopped down once again on the swing, her head in front of Connor and resting on the arm of the bench. She sighed happily as the swing began to rock gently.

"Thank you, Connor," she muttered.

She was sure she heard a disgruntled whine in reply.


	4. FOUR

**In which there is a pin that just won't behave**

Morgane stepped over the pug that was stretched out on her back in Aveline's bedchamber. Her friend was sitting in front of a mirror, cautiously adjusting her stays and pulling at her shift. The maid had tightened it far too much that day and Aveline was finding it hard to breathe. She grimaced at every breath in and furiously tried to undo the lacing. Morgane quickly swatted her hand away.

"You're breasts look divine, chérie. Don't worry about it."

Aveline groaned. "I cannot breathe."

"I fail to see the problem. It just means that when you collapse, there will be a plethora of handsome men to revive you."

Aveline rolled her eyes. It was always that way with Morgane. Aveline stood and pulled on her petticoat, smoothing the white cotton quickly. Morgane tugged at the embroidered hems to straighten them as the other woman tied her pockets around her waist loosely – still hoping to have her stays unlaced. Morgane stood up quickly and handed Aveline two pairs of shoes, one a dusky pink and the other a royal blue with large bows. Aveline scrunched up her face comically in thought, causing her dear friend to giggle. Tonight she would wear the pink pair.

Aveline slipped her feet into the heeled slippers, lifting up her petticoat to show of her stockinged legs to Morgane. The other nodded in approval.

"Très belle. Now, help me with my panniers."

Aveline lifted the fabric-covered hoops onto Morgane's hips as she fumbled around to tie the thick cord. Having no luck, a maid rushed over and finished the job before securing Aveline's. The knot tugged on Aveline's stomach and she gasped. Morgane shuffled into her golden shoes and lifted an equally gold dress off Aveline's bed. It had a scoop neck lined with ruffled of embroidered gold fabric and lace. The skirt was layered with more ruffles and golden embroidery and trailed along the floor like a waterfall.

"Qu'est-ce que tu penses?" Morgane asked, swishing it in front of her.

"Parfait! No doubt all the men in the ballroom will be staring at you. You look like a star!"

The two giggled excitedly. With a wave of Morgane's hand, a maid rushed over to help her into the gown. Morgan stood with her arms wide as the maid fastened her skirt.

"And you? What will you be wearing?" she asked as she peered over her shoulder at her friend.

Aveline pursed her lips and stared at the gowns hung out for her to choose from. They were a mixture of pale blues, vibrant pinks and soft greens, each edged with lace and shining embroidery. All were far too typical for Aveline's taste. Every girl there would be wearing something like that. She sighed and walked over to her wardrobe, pawing through the assortment of gowns that lined the walls. Morgane followed her once her bodice had been pinned shut, running her hands along the golden stomacher as she scrutinised Aveline's movements.

The dark-skinned girl paused and lifted up a rich, ruby gown.

"This one."

Morgane lifted an eyebrow. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

"Alright. Well I will be getting my hair done. Are you powdering yours today? Because I am not. I always thought it was a strange fashion."

"Morgane, have I _ever_ powdered my hair?" Aveline replied sarcastically.

Morgane smirked and walked back into the dressing room.

* * *

Morgane sat on the daybed and watched the maid struggle with Aveline's hair, stuffing an assortment of macaroons and sugary biscuits into her mouth. The dress, she had decided, was a good choice after all. It had a sack back, with a barely visible damask pattern in silver. The sleeves were with trimmed with silver and gold lace and draped around her dark arms like a veil. A gold stomacher completed the gown. It was incredibly flattering, perhaps too much so for Marie's birthday ball.

"Are you hoping to impress someone?" Morgane questioned in between bites.

Aveline's cheeks flushed.

Giggling, Morgane said, "Is he attractive?"

Aveline pursed her lips, refusing to say anything. Morgane playfully threw a pillow at her shoulder; an act that caused the maid to drop the box of pins all over the floor. Aveline attempted to help the poor maid but was told to stay put before the pins in her tightly coiffed hair fell out. Morgane absently touched some of the diamonds and golden butterflies the maid had woven into her hair.

"You must introduce him to me."

"Morgane, I am not trying to impress anyone."

"Of course, of course. That is why you look like a queen rather than a baroness. Because anybody not trying to impress someone would much rather wear simpler, less attractive clothes. Am I right?"

Aveline frowned.

"Come on, who is he?" Morgane begged.

Her friend sighed as the maid resumed her assault on her hair. "He's … new."

"So I haven't met him?"

"Not exactly."

"Will I meet him?"

"I doubt he'll be there."

Aveline yelped as the maid stuck a pin into her neck. The curl she had been trying to fix in place fell down. The maid groaned in frustration. She had been fighting with that single curl for almost half an hour now. The rest of Aveline's hair had been carefully styled on top of her head with similar decorations to Morgane. It was only that final piece that needed to behave.

Morgane put the plate of biscuits on the table and stood from her place on the daybed. Standing in front of her friend, she moved the single long curl to drape over Aveline's shoulder and along her chest.

"There. Parfait."

Aveline smiled gratefully. Morgane took Aveline's arm and helped her stand. The two walked arm in arm to the door.

"Now, you must tell me all about him in the carriage ride over!"


	5. FIVE

**In which there is a glass of champagne and a series of exploding lights**

"… et la comtesse Aveline de Grandpré."

Aveline slowly entered the ballroom behind her father and step-mother, her skirt swishing behind her as she walked. Her hands twitched nervously as she saw the other guests greet her parents with the usual warmth. She was already bracing herself for the onslaught of contempt. Clutching her fan tightly, she already wanted to leave. There was no sign of Morgane in the ballroom; her starry dress was perfectly hidden. Even though she had been announced before Aveline, it seemed she had already vanished.

Edouard was standing with his group of friends and his escort – the Baron de Provence's daughter. Josephine weaved between the groups of people, greeting them with gusto and dragging the frazzled and submissive Élise with her. There was no Marie and no Morgane. Aveline could feel her stomach tighten.

Dainty hands clasped around Aveline's eyes. The faint smell of Morgane's perfume filled her nostrils and she sighed in relief. Thank god, she wasn't alone anymore. Morgane released her and spun around to stand in front of her. By the look on her face, she had already been eyeing the many available beaus in the room. No doubt she had already chosen her targets. Morgane took hold of Aveline's wrist and dragged her across the ballroom to a small nook in the large windows. It held a cushioned seat large enough for the two to sit side by side, their skirts bunching up around them like clouds. The pair flopped down onto it, Morgane sighing exasperatedly.

Apparently the seat was the best place to see everything. And by this, Morgane no doubt meant the men. She elbowed her friend and whispered something in her ear, pointing to a tall young man with a hooked nose and powered wig and giggled. Apparently the man was one of Josephine's many suitors. The pair had no idea how high on the list he was – it all depended on his fortune. By the bored look on his face, it was probably pretty high.

"So, where is this beau homme you told me about in the carriage?" Morgane asked, speaking directly into her ear to be heard over the loud chatter and orchestra.

Aveline sighed. "I don't see him. He wouldn't have been allowed to come anyway."

"You talk about him as if he was a servant," Morgane huffed.

Aveline hung her head. Morgane was right, completely right. Aveline had to be more careful. She looked up at the crowd again and fluttered her fan slowly, feeling faint. For a second she thought she saw a flash of pink followed by a tall and muscular man with beads in his hair. Her heart rose but she quickly attempt to quell any sort of emotion. It wasn't right or proper. She should forget about him. He's nothing more than Edouard's personal slave.

A butler in a black and gold suit walked past with a tray laden with glasses of champagne. Perhaps a little too quickly, Aveline reached out and snatched a glass off the tray, downing the golden liquid in two large gulps. Morgane looked at her with wide eyes. This was certainly uncommon behaviour. The butler took the glass off her and continued walking around the ballroom.

"Ça va?"

"Oui, ça va."

Aveline took a deep breath. Her anxiety was flaring, she didn't even understand why. There was nothing unusual about the ball at all. She closed her eyes and hid her face behind her fan.

"You made it!" A soft voice called, eerily family to that of petite Marie. Aveline opened her eyes to find the young girl, now 13, standing in front of her. Her blonde hair had been piled on top of her head with pink ribbons and diamonds. Her dress was long and pink, with a sack back and layers of chiffon over the top of the outer layer. It draped around her and spilled across the floor like water. She had shed her childish appearance for the night and looked almost too old.

Aveline grinned as Marie draped herself around her, holding her tightly. Aveline hugged back, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead.

"I was afraid you wouldn't come," Marie whimpered.

"I would never miss such an important day," Aveline cooed. "Happy birthday, ma chérie."

Marie smiled widely and nuzzled Aveline's neck. Marie jumped up quickly and tugged on the man who had arrived with her, dressed in a lavish black and gold suit like the other servants. "Say hello," she ordered. The man groaned inwardly and curtly bowed to the two seated women.

"Welcome, mesdames," Connor mumbled.

Aveline smiled in greeting. Connor only scowled, making Aveline's stomach drop. _He really does hate me_.

"Connor's my escort! He promised to take the next dance with me, didn't you?" Marie gushed. Connor nodded, his face turning red.

"Are you sure that is wise, Marie? He is a_ servant_," Morgane warned, her voice low.

"Of course it is! Come on, I want to get a good spot!" Marie tugged on the servants arm and began to skip into the centre of the ballroom. His eyes went wide and his feet slipped on the smooth tiles, causing him to fall slightly before being dragged forward by the young girl. Aveline and Morgane giggled behind their fans.

The strangely matched pair vanished into the crowd of partygoers. Sighing, Morgane shut her fan. She stood and held out her hand to her friend.

"Let's go get something to eat."

* * *

Aveline had been introduced to at least a dozen men, none of them interested in her in the slightest. None of them were vaguely attractive either. At least, Aveline didn't find them attractive. Morgane, however, fawned over every one of them, flirting in the most obvious ways she knew. Aveline had rolled her eyes at every attempt. Marie had joined their group occasionally, the handsome and distant servant following her everywhere. Now she was with her sister, Connor being forced to stand at attention against the wall as Josephine introduced her sibling to as many aristocrats with young, rich sons as possible. Marie was polite, but hardly payed attention.

Aveline sat on a chair against the wall, a few metres away from the servant, watching Morgane dance a round with a handsome bachelor from Avignon. Morgane was all smiles and laughed often, revelling in his company. Aveline's face was blank and she twisted the empty wine glass in her hand. She was tired, dejected, irritated. She wanted to go home.

Her glass was replaced by a servant without her even moving, her glassy eyes fixed on Morgane and her beau. She hadn't been asked to dance, no one wanted her. When she gathered to courage to ask a man, he would claim to be needed elsewhere. Aveline had given up trying and took up place in the chair.

Part of her wanted to cry. Not because she was disappointed, but because she was sick of constantly being the one left out, of being labelled worthless and low. She swallowed her tears and focussed on breathing, the corset becoming tighter as the night progressed. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Connor's stoic figure. He was staring straight ahead, wavering slightly where he stood. His eyes drooped and Aveline could tell he was struggling to stay awake. She sucked in her stomach and coughed.

"Hello," she said, her voice strained.

He didn't reply. He probably didn't even realise she was talking to him. Aveline repeated her greeting, this time including his name and he slowly looked in her direction. His face looked bored and he blinked in reply.

"How are you?" Aveline asked.

"Well."

"Are you enjoying tonight?"

"Yes."

"That's good."

Conversation stopped. Connor returned to staring at the crowd of dancers in the centre of the room, leaning against the wall tiredly. Aveline sighed and looked down at the now-full glass of champagne in her lap. She downed it quickly.

* * *

Many of the guests had already left, but those who remained stood diligently on the lawn, their heads turned skyward. The moon and stars stared back. Marie gripped tightly to Aveline's hand in excitement, Connor standing next to the blonde girl. They were waiting for the grand finale.

The fireworks.

They started slowly, bursts of golden and red light filling the sky. The crowd gasped in awe. Marie giggled and jumped in her spot. The servant next to her clenched his fists, the sudden sounds scaring him. It sounded too much like gunshot. The light display continued. The black sky was painted red, gold, blue and green all for one little girl. Marie let go of her friend's hand and clapped happily, looking at Connor's face with a wild grin. He twisted the corner of his mouth in reply, a nervous smile.

"Aren't they beautiful?" Marie sighed. She took the hands of the two adults next to her, swinging them slightly as she looked at the sky above.

Connor nodded. "Yes. They are."

Aveline looked at the servant who stared at the exploding lights, his face now covered in childish wonderment. It was at peace. Blushing, Aveline glanced back at the lights. If anything, it was a perfect ending. She had only wished the rest of the night was just as good as that moment. Marie sighed tiredly and happily, resting her head on Aveline's arm.

With the fading of the fireworks, Connor scooped the tired girl into his arms and carried her to her room. Marie curled against him and drifted into a shallow sleep. Aveline watched, her heart pounding, until Morgane took her arm and accompanied her to the carriage.


	6. SIX

**In which there is a tavern**

Aveline strode slowly down the hallway that led to her father's library. It was an unusually dark morning and the candles on the wall threw their dull light across the statues and paintings lining the hall. Aveline was rarely allowed to come down to the library. Each visit made her anxious. The stony faces on the walls appeared accusatory, though Aveline could think of nothing she did wrong.

Josephine had joked that she was too kind to Édouard's new servant. Maybe that was it. But how would her father know? Was it even such a big problem?

The woman stopped short of the grand double doors, sucking in a deep breath to calm herself. She raised her hand to knock on the white wood. The doors swung open without her even touching it.

"Come in," her father called from his padded armchair in the corner of the room. A newspaper was held in front of his face and the low table at his side was covered in a stack of thick books and a cup of cold tea. Aveline tiptoed forward, taking a look back at the doors as if she was planning her escape. A valet closed them with a quick click and returned to stand stiffly next to a bust of her grandfather. Hands trembling, Aveline clasped her skirt and walked until she stood a few metres from her father's position in the chair.

She didn't say a word. It was rude to speak without her father first addressing her. At least, that's what her stepmother said. It hadn't always been that way. When she was small she would always play with her beloved father and mother. It was normal for her to sprint down the halls to leap into her father's arms. Then, when her mother passed, the two became distant, estranged, like roommates in a boarding house. Her father's remarriage to the Marquis de Toulouse's daughter made their relationship even more strained.

Her father folded his newspaper and placed it on his lap over the thick throw that covered his knees. Looking up at his daughter, his age-lined face creased into a soft smile. He beckoned her closer with a demure wave of his hand.

"You have grown into quite a beautiful woman, ma petite," he mused, shaking his head slowly in thought. Powder from his wig fell onto his shoulders. "I should have no trouble marrying you off to some … aristocrat's son. At least in theory."

Aveline swallowed. She hated this conversation and received it almost once every couple of months. It was always the same. He would complement her beauty, her sophistication, and wonder why, at almost 20 years of age, she was still unmarried. Elise was married, albeit unhappily, and Morgane had already been betrothed to a German since her 5th year of life. Josephine had no shortage of suitors and Marie was already lined up to Marie a Russian Duke's son. It was only Aveline, his eldest child, who was left. He rubbed his temples.

"I still do not understand why you declined the offer of Sire Auditore. Yes, he is Italian and not of Royal blood, but he has a good family. He would suit you well and no doubt bring you great happiness," her father moaned.

Aveline pursed her lips at the mention of the middle child of Giovanni Auditore, an old friend of her father's. They had grown up together, played together, run away and explored the chateau gardens together. But he was simple and ordinary. Good for a laugh but not intelligent conversation.

"We were ill-matched, father. He would have been much happier with someone else."

"Like that _Vespucci_ woman?" he spat. "You are worth far more than her. He should have considered himself lucky to have even been allowed to propose."

"He didn't. His father did on his behalf. Ezio didn't want—"

The comte silenced her with another wave of his hand and sighed.

"Why must I have such an impossible child?"

Aveline felt the anger she usually kept in check bubble in her throat. Her hands formed fists around the layers of her white skirt. "It's not my fault my mother was of darker skin," she hissed under her breath.

"I beg your pardon? Do not make excuses for your lack of proposals!"

"It's true, father! The only reason no man in the French court wishes to take me is because of my skin! I'm not the same as them!"

"Aveline—"

"Stop trying to marry me off when there isn't even anyone willing!"

"AVELINE—"

Aveline ignored him. She spun around furiously and stormed out of the library, the valet barely having enough time to open to doors. She could hear her father calling for her, then calling for the valet to get her and she broke into a run. Running down the long hallway, into the foyer and finally out through the back entrance – the route new servants took when they got lost on their way to their quarters. It had started raining, the blackened clouds pouring water upon her and turning the gardens to mud. She gathered her skirts in her arms and sprinted away, her feet carrying her westward.

* * *

Aveline was doubled over in front of the servant's entrance of the Beaulieu estate. It was still raining, her entire body was soaked with water and her dress caked into mud up to her knees. The pins in her hair had fallen out and it tumbled in thick, wet curls around her face. She breathed heavily, her chest aching with every breath. There was no way she could face the Beaulieu family in this state. Marie was still on a high from her birthday two weeks ago, and Josephine … Well, that was fairly self-explanatory.

She coughed, still struggling to breathe. Hot, angry tears mingled with the rain that continued to pound onto her body. Slowly, she uncurled herself and stood shakily at the door. Her hand was raised to knock, still trying to figure out if she really wanted to. She didn't want to go home, she didn't want to enter the main house, and she didn't want to see Morgane. The only option she had left was Connor.

And he didn't even like her.

Aveline coughed again, her hands becoming shaky. She wrapped her arms around her torso defensively as she was overcome by a wave of painful coughs. Suddenly the door swung open. Aveline looked up, wet hair obscuring her vision. There he was, Connor, standing at the threshold and looking down at her as if he'd seen a ghost. The door was promptly slammed shut.

It remained shut for at least a minute. If Aveline concentrated hard enough, she could hear the muffled sounds of raised voices – an argument. One voice was the loudest; heavily accented, spoken in staccato bursts of simple and far-too-formal language and deep, much deeper than the others. Aveline swallowed as the door opened again.

It was still Connor, except now he looked defeated and angry, his eyebrows knitted together in scorn. The servant stepped aside and nodded for Aveline to come in. Breathing a sigh of relief, she stepped over the threshold and into the servant's mess. Her long skirt dragged behind her, leaving a trail of mud and water behind her. Three members of staff stood at attention around the long table in the centre of the room, one a squat man with a soiled apron and the others almost carbon copies of each other. A third was seated, draped over the table and singing 'Frere Jacques' in a low, slurred voice. His uniform was dishevelled compared to the relatively neat clothes of the others.

"Asseyez-vous," Connor mumbled, pulling out a plain wooden chair from the table.

Aveline could feel all the eyes in room staring at her as she slowly sat down at the table. One of the copies swallowed nervously, looking at the taller one with caution. The taller elbowed him.

"You can all sit down," Aveline said slowly. "There's no reason to stand."

Looking at each other in surprise, the three servants sat on the opposite side of the table. Connor still stood at a distance, eyeing her begrudgingly. Aveline pulled out the chair next to her, her sopping dress splashing more water on the ground. She patted the chair softly. "Sit."

Connor scowled but obliged. He had no choice. He slid onto the chair with his arms folded, and stared straight ahead at the wood panelled wall. Aveline smiled at him wearily, drained. He didn't look at her.

One of the copies stood. "May I get you a towel, Madame de Grandpré?"

"Oh, uh, yes please."

The servant, a tall man called Georges, quickly dashed into the storeroom adjacent. Aveline coughed again, shivering violently. The shorter one watched her curiously. Aveline smiled in greeting and the man lowered his face. Aveline sighed.

"So … what is wrong with him?" she asked, pointing to the man who was still singing Frere Jacques.

Connor looked at the man a few seats away from him. "Maurice got into the sherry," he explained in monotone.

The mention of sherry made the stout man jump up from his seat and dash into the kitchen. He was no doubt one of the cooks. Aveline pursed her lips and continued watching Maurice repeatedly sing the children's song. "Where did he get it?"

"The tavern."

"There's a tavern?"

"Every village has a tavern, madame," the other servant interrupted.

Georges came back into the room with a few towels and set them on the table. "Don't directly address the comtesse without her permission, Adrien," he chastised. "If you want to stay employed, brother, I suggest to don't talk at all."

Adrien sunk into his seat, pouting. Aveline took the towels and started squeezing some of the water out of her hair.

"Maybe we should go to the tavern," she mused, rubbing her wild hair.

Silence fell amongst the servants. Even Maurice stopped singing. The elder, drunk valet lifted his head and looked at the comtesse.

"That … is a brilliant idea! Why didn't we bring a lady-friend in here before! Let's all go to the tavern for drinks and music and women and drinks—"

"I don't think that is wise," Connor said quickly.

"Of course it is! Find the lass some clothes and we'll go!" Maurice slurred.

Connor stuttered in protest, but Aveline clapped her hands excitedly. Connor stared at her with wide, terrified eyes. Georges was rooted to the spot and Adrien simply smirked.

"Well, do the maids have any spare clothes?"

There was no way they were getting out of this. Bloody Maurice.

* * *

Aveline sat on a table in the village tavern, a glass of cider at her side as she watched a man play a fiddle and a bunch of drunken peasants dance around him. Adrien and Maurice were just a few of those drunken peasants. Georges kept to the side, not touching the glass Maurice had shouted him over an hour ago. He hadn't drunk at all, preferring to keep an eye on his impressionable little brother. Aveline watched them eagerly, enjoying being a part of this new life, with happiness and laughter and no one telling you how to live. She sighed happily and took a hearty sip of her cider.

Connor strode towards her, leaning against the table she sat on and watching the fiddler. He stayed with her to keep an eye on her, but he much rather wished he was elsewhere. In bed would be preferable or even dozing high above the ground nestled in a tree. Aveline smoothed the rough linen skirt she had swiped from the servant's quarters and smiled at him. He grumbled.

Aveline frowned. She still didn't understand what she did wrong. All the times she had picked on him were only in jest. They were for fun. She liked him, she found him interesting and she wanted to talk to him without him scowling and answering in one word sentences. She wanted what Marie had.

"I'm sorry," she said loudly above the cheers of joy from the drunken people.

Connor looked at her, his brow raised in confusion. "What for?"

"Everything. I don't really know, but you obviously don't like me and I'm sorry for what I did to make you so … angry." Aveline took another swig of her cider.

Connor was silent. His grumpy face softened slightly. "Permission to speak freely?"

"Of course."

"You're arrogant. You enjoy causing trouble for others for your own amusement and seem to have little care for anyone other than those of your class. I am tired of being your … toy. I _am_ human," Connor _, folding his arms. "I hate being here and treated like I'm nothing."

"I'm sorry."

Silence fell over the pair.

"You are not nothing. Not to me and certainly not to Marie."

Connor looked up at her, his eyes wide in surprise. Aveline grinned and took another sip of her cider. The song the fiddler was playing finished and the crowd burst into a rowdy applause. The fiddler bowed and prepared the next tune. Aveline set down her drink and jumped down from the table. Holding out her hand to Connor, she smirked.

"May I have the pleasure of this dance, Monsieur Connor?"

"What?"

"A dance. Surely you know how to dance."

"No."

"Come on, it'll be fun!"

"I don't think—"

Aveline didn't let him finish and took hold of his hand, dragging him over to where the other two servants were sloppily dancing with equally drunk and loose women. The fiddler began to play another fast song. Another man pounded a beat on a full keg of mead. Aveline grinned at Connor who awkwardly smiled back, holding onto her hands as if they would keep him alive.

* * *

Aveline stumbled out of the tavern, tripping on her too long dress and falling face-first into a puddle of mud. She giggled madly as she struggled to pull herself up. The drink had gone to her head a little too easily. Chuckling, Connor bent down and tugged on her arm to lift her up, only making him fall into the mud too. He had far much success in getting out of it and lifted Aveline up by her armpits.

Maurice had already been thrown into the rickety carriage and Georges, the only sober member of the party, stood outside as his younger brother tried to clamber inside. He frowned at the other two and Aveline flopped onto Connor, wrapping her arms around his neck and giggling. Connor flushed red, redder than the alcohol had already made him, and tried to get her to move forward.

She was too drunk to walk without tripping.

"Oh Connor, have I ever told you that you have the –"

"That's enough, madame. Come on."

Aveline only continued her giggling and stumbled into the carriage with Connor's fervent pushing. Eventually she collapsed onto one of the hard benches. Adrien was passed out next to her and Connor pushed himself between the two. Smiling, Aveline let her head fall onto Connor's shoulder, her fingers tracing patterns on the back of his hand. Connor let her, not knowing what to do. He hit the side of the carriage as Georges came in, causing the carriage to lurch forward.

He looked down at the comtesse, her dark hair tumbling across her shoulders and her closed. She looked … beautiful. The thought made Connor's stomach clench. He shouldn't be thinking that about her. Not only was it a break of protocol, but she was one of them. Sighing, his eyes fell to his lap, where Aveline had wrapped her fingers around his thumb.

There was nothing that could stop the smile from spreading across Connor's face.


	7. SEVEN

**In which there is a lingering feeling**

It had been two weeks since Aveline had entered the over-crowded tavern in the nearby village. She's been bedridden ever since, overcome by a severe cold and a crippling hangover than only made it worse. It was worth it. The painful coughs and dribbling nose were nothing really, because she had been outside. She had danced with a boy who wasn't pompous and had almost wanted to.

Almost.

Aveline would lay in bed thinking about it for hours – those hours in between bowls of soup, maids fluffing pillows and her father begrudgingly handing her more books to read. He was still angry at her, especially for running away, and he believed the fact that she was ill was only fair punishment. He didn't know about the tavern incident. Or Connor. Or even how she returned.

Hell, she didn't know. Her memories started to blur together after the dance. But what she could remember was heaven: Connor's calloused and scarred hands tightly holding hers, his quiet chuckle when he attempted to move his feet in imitation of hers, his low voice when they finally talked as equals. After that, all she could remember was waking up in her bed smelling like vomit. A maid was already at her side and many others fluttering about the room.

She had a pounding headache, a sore throat and aches everywhere. They were only amplified by the constant worry of those around her.

It had eased off after the first week. Then others had been allowed to visit her. Morgane came once, but Marie was by far her most diligent carer. She would see her almost every day, bringing with her a maid to carry an assortment of books, sketchbooks, sweets and dolls – all to cheer Aveline up.

After two weeks she could sit and walk without pain, but she still preferred to stay in bed. Marie had promised to bring someone 'special' with her once she was better, and once her brother would let her. It was fairly obvious who this 'special person' was as Marie wouldn't stop talking about him. Whenever she wasn't busy crooning over her older friend, she was gushing over how she had seen Connor, talked to Connor, or even had tea with him. She was besotted.

Aveline was excited, perhaps too excited. She'd made an effort that morning to make herself look presentable. Dragging herself out of bed, she had combed her hair into a messy plait and allowed the maid to pull on a loose-fitting dress so she could still lie comfortably on her bed. The maid helped her to her private sitting room and she sat on the mod comfortable chair she could – waiting in anticipation for the arrival of Marie and her brother's manservant.

It was nearly an hour before Marie skipped in, overjoyed to see her dear friend out of bed. However, the person who followed her wasn't the American servant. It was instead one of Aveline's old friends who had moved into the south many years ago. Aveline's heart had dropped.

She'd only lasted an hour before she retreated back into her bed.

But today was different. She was mostly well now, with only weak muscles and a constant cough, and her friends (including Morgane, Marie and her siblings) had said they were coming to see her. They had planned a picnic, but the dreary weather had stopped them. Instead they took up residence in Aveline's sitting room, seated on various couches, chairs and pillows.

And of course, with the presence of Edouard, came the stoic servant. He stood back, nestled in the corner with his head held high and fixed on the portrait of Aveline's grandmother on the back wall. The months spent under Édouard's thumb had moulded him into the perfect servant – silent, still and obedient. Crushed.

Josephine had been talking at the group for the past half hour, not to, at. Aveline had toned out, wringing her hands and looking at the servant out of the corner of her eye. He was still staring at the portrait but his eyes flicked over to meet hers, the hard expressions softening slightly. Aveline offered him a small smile, waggling her fingers dainty in his direction. He looked down at his shoes, attempting to not smile back, but Aveline could see the corner of his mouth crease. The comtesse waited until his eyes wandered over to her once more and winked, causing the servant's cheeks to redden. Aveline giggled behind her fan and turned her attention back to the group.

Looking down at her palms, Aveline could still feel her fingertips tingle. Her gaze lingered over them and all conversation flew over her ears.

"Aveline? Aveline are you even listening to me?" Josephine's voice cut through the air and made Aveline jump. She looked up from her hands and stared at the regal blonde blankly. Josephine let out a sharp breath and rolled her eyes. Groaning, Aveline closed her fan and dragged herself off the couch.

"Where are you going?" Josephine questioned, her voice raising.

Aveline staggered over to the door and looked over her shoulder. "Edouard, can I borrow your servant?"

Edouard blinked, the piece of cake half-way to his mouth. "Why?"

"Well … I need to do some things for papa before I forget, but I need help—"

"Oh Ava, we can help!" Morgane exclaimed, putting down her cup of tea.

"No, no it's fine. He wanted me to do it and I—"

"Yes, you may borrow him," Edouard interrupted. "I'm tired of seeing him. He's a good, strong servant but he is absolutely hideous!" Both he and his sister chuckled. Aveline peeked at Marie. The little girl was glaring at her brother with murderous intent. Connor chewed on his lips in distaste. Aveline bobbed in a quick curtsy and tugged on Connor's coat sleave before dashing out of the sitting room. Connor followed slowly.

Once the two were far enough down the hall, Aveline grasped the American's hand and started sprinting. She just wanted to get out of there, to escape, and she wanted Connor to come with her.

If only they could go to the tavern.


	8. EIGHT

**In which there is a feeling of dread**

The long table was lavishly set with a ruby runner and trays of elaborate meals. Fruit and shrimp dangled artfully from the edges of bowls and platters. Comte Grandpré picked a grape from one of the platters and slowly ate it, savouring the juices. He waggled his finger and a manservant with a powdered wig and a tray of wineglasses strode towards him, offering him the tray. He took a sip of the red wine and placed it back on the tray. The servant slunk back into his position against the wall.

Aveline stared across the table at her father, her meal untouched. She prodded a slice of veal with her fork, pushing it around her plate and through various sauces. Yet she couldn't bring herself to eat it. She felt sick even though she had overcome her cold a week ago. Throwing down her fork, she huffed and played with the thick fabric of her skirt.

Summer was ending. It was getting cooler and darker. But more importantly, the rest of her family was coming home.

Her father was leaving for Paris tomorrow. He was to collect Aveline's step mother and half-brother who had been holidaying in Normandie for the season. Aveline couldn't come; Madame de Grandpré would not allow it. There was no way she would have been seen with a Negro. It was too degrading and would only make her perfect little son look bad. She had briefly returned for the ball at the Beaulieu chateau (she could never resist a ball) but fled back to the northern coast as soon as she could. Her son, the heir, had remained in Normandie with his aunt.

But now the two of them were coming back. Aveline was dreading it. Once again she would be shoved aside like furniture and berated constantly by her step mother. Everything would be position in favour of the heir: her perfect, white half-brother Alexandre.

Aveline hated him. He was only five but she hated him with every fibre of her being.

The young woman looked up at her father, her features fierce and agitated. "Papa," she called, waiting for the man's attention to draw away from his meal. She had to call twice before he grunted in acknowledgement. He huffed and set down his cutlery.

"Are you finished?" he asked.

"Oui, papa."

"Then you are excused."

A servant emerged from the wall and began taking away her glass and napkin. Aveline did not move, continuing to scowl at her father. "May I please visit Josephine?" she queried in monotone. Her father did not look up and took another bite of veal.

"At this hour?"

"The sun is still up, father," Aveline spat. She was in no mood for his semantics. "It will just be a quick visit."

The man sighed dramatically and waved his hand dismissively. "Go ahead." Aveline leapt out of her chair and half-jogged out of the dining room. One she had entered the hall she hiked up her skirts and started running, determined to get out of there as soon as possible. Her stripped pink polonaise fluttered behind her as she dashed for the front door.

But there was no way in hell she would be seeing Josephine.

Aveline wandered aimless up and down the grand hallways of the Beaulieu chateau, her shoes clacking on the marble floor that a servant was diligently polishing near the west wing. To her luck, all members of the family were occupied. The Duke and Duchess Beaulieu were holding a dinner party for members of their yacht club. Edouard was visiting the Marquis de Rouen's son and Josephine was, thankfully, ill. Only Marie was somewhat available, but she was studiously practicing her piano forte. The tutor had insisted she be left alone until the lesson was over.

So whilst she waited, the Madame de Grandpré paced along the long hallway that stretched the width of the chateau. There was hardly anyone there except for a few maids and valets scurrying about with sheets or trays of tea and biscuits. She was essentially alone.

The tutor had told her she could wait in Marie's sitting room, but Aveline couldn't bear to stay still. She was jittery, anxious. The constant walking and turning somehow gave her something to focus on. Besides, there was always the slight possibility that if she waited in the hall long enough, she could catch a glimpse of the American manservant.

As much as she hated to admit it, she needed him. His stoic nature and the slight nods he gave when she spoke were strangely reassuring. Aveline had been able to meet with him on occasion, the two sharing brief conversation in deserted rooms when he had a moment to spare or small nods when they passed each other in the chateau. Morgane had caught her once as she smiled all too warmly at him (and his cheeks glowed abnormally red when he smiled back). Her friend had scowled and yanked on Aveline's arm, making them stop in their turn about the hall. The gold-wearing woman stared down at Connor's receding figure. Once he had walked out of sight, Morgane tugged Aveline towards the room where Edouard was sharing lunch with his friends and pleaded for him to punish his servant for being lecherous towards a woman of class.

Aveline hadn't seen Connor since.

Her feet were growing tired and her heart began to pound in her throat. She quickly sat down on one of the plush window seats that were situated at the far end of the hall, taking out her fan and waving it frantically. The nerves just wouldn't leave.

The servant near the west wing had finished polished and collected his bucket and rags, dragging himself upwards and back towards the servants quarters. The hall fell eerily silent. Only the rushing sound of Aveline's fan accompanied her. She remained by the window for another 10 minutes before another servant staggered around the corner. The dull padding of eroded shoes drew the woman's attention and she put down her frilled fan, looking in the direction of the quiet footsteps.

It was yet another servant with a bucket that dragged his body to one side and an arm laden with rags. He didn't wear the jacket and waistcoat of the other and was stripped to his shirt, sleeves rolled past his elbows revealing tanned, muscular arms. His hair, long and black, was tied in a loose ponytail behind his head. Head bowed, he shuffled down the hall with a severe limp.

Aveline gasped. "Connor!"

The servant stopped hastily, his head jerking upwards. The bucket in his hands began to tremble violently. As his bleary and reddened eyes began to focus his muscles slackened, causing him to drop the rags. Connor breathed a sigh of relief and his whole body sagged with it. Aveline scrambled off the seat and hurried over to him, throwing her arms around his shoulders and holding close. He yelped in a mixture of pain and surprise. Confused, the woman released him, still holding him by his upper arms.

"Connor, what's wrong?"

"_Rien_. Let me go. I have to wash the floor in—"

"Don't lie to me. What happened?"

"Madame, please—"

"Connor—"

Connor yanked himself out of Aveline's grasp. His face hardened and the permanent look of distaste amplified, lip curling in a low growl. Stunned, Aveline stumbled backwards. The servant's posture straightened. He appeared powerful and capable of tearing her in two as he looked down at her.

"Leave me alone! You've caused me enough trouble," he bellowed.

Aveline was shocked into silence. She simply stared at him with wide eyes, her fingers trembling. This silence only served to make Connor angrier, though Aveline didn't understand why. He opened his mouth to hurl insults at her but stopped as a door adjacent swung open.

"Connor? Ava?"

Marie stood at the entrance of her room, peering out of the door. Her large blue eyes were fixed on the pair and appeared close to tears. Connor's posture sunk and he took a few steps back, head bowed once more in submission. A heavy silence fell over them. Swallowing his rage, Connor bowed curtly and hurriedly walked down the hallway and out of sight.

Aveline remained still, only her fingers twitched as she continued to stare at the place he had once stood. Marie swiftly took her hand and dragged her into her room. The pair didn't utter a word, even when they were nestled in a cushioned corner of the blonde's room and hidden from everyone. Aveline gazed blankly at her folded hands as she tried to comprehend everything. Her friend gently stroked her dark, curly hair and hummed the song she had been practicing minutes earlier.

Aveline drew her knees closer to her chest, the thick skirt preventing her from moving them too far. "_Madame et Alexandre sont retour_," she finally muttered. Her voice trembled as if she were about to cry.

Marie took Aveline's hands in her own and squeezed lightly. "It'll be okay. _Je t'aime, tu sais_? » Marie assured. "_Et Connor … Il est simplement fatigué_. Edouard has been relentless. I've never seen him enjoy being so …" Marie shook her head clear of her thoughts. Tightening her grip on her friend, she smiled warmly. Aveline attempted to smile back but it looked almost like a grimace.

"You have me, remember? And I'm always going to be here for you." Marie kissed Aveline's cheek gently. "Always."

* * *

**Translations:**

_Madame et Alexandre sont de retour:_ Madame and Alexandre are returning.

_Il est simplement fatigué: _He is just tired.


	9. NINE

**In which there are hurts that aren't easily soothed**

Connor slumped against the wall of the barely used room in the west wing. He had spent the past 3 hours scrubbing the floor furiously and his arms now ached as much as his scarred back. Exhausted, he slid to the ground and rested his head on his knees, arms hanging at his sides. He could spare a few minutes. No one came down through this part of the house unless it was absolutely necessary. Only the servants wandered through the halls to dust sculptures and fireplaces. Connor had been assigned this room with its towering portrait of a younger Édouard above the mantel piece. It seemed to taunt him even more than the real thing.

Connor wanted to tear it apart.

The servant coughed, his chest shuddering violently. He was feeling more and more sick the longer he stayed here. The food was different and he wasn't given any near enough anymore. The constant beatings for no reason other than his master's own amusement only made his feel worse. He moved sluggishly, tripping over tiny bumps in pathways and his own two feet. He couldn't sleep through the pain of the lashings and the bone-shaking coughs.

He wanted to escape. Perhaps earlier, when he was only new to the country, he would have had the strength to run. Thoughts of freedom and plans to escape used to keep him occupied during Edouard's many parties. Now he struggled to even think.

Bile rose in his throat, burning his mouth. He swallowed it quickly. There was no way he was going to vomit over the floor he had just polished. He didn't want to do it again. Sadly his will wasn't strong enough. Doubling over, the meagre contents of his stomach erupted onto the shining floor between his legs. Sandwiching his head between his knees, he started at it dejectedly as he waited for the next wave. He didn't have to wait long.

Once his stomach had settled, he sat back against the wall, reaching for the bucket of soapy water and rags next to him. It was slightly too far from his fingers. In his attempt to grab it he knocked it over, water spiling across the floor. He swore loudly in his native tongue and slammed his fist onto the tiled floor. The servant drew his legs to his chest and curled into a tight ball, hair grasped between his raw and wet fingers.

A hot, acidic tear rolled down his cheek.

Dainty footsteps pattered along the hallway that led to the room. The sound of heeled shoes clicking against the tiles echoed in Connor's head all too loudly. It made his head ache. It would only be another maid who would be too caught up in her own duties to notice the defeated figure in the room. The family never went there, but even if it was one of them they would pass by without any notice at all, their nose turned to the ceiling. It slowed as the person walked past the slightly ajar door and then suddenly stopped. The large, painted door creaked open. A quiet, feminine gasp caused Connor to lift his heavy head and take a glance at the new arrival.

It was Aveline. Connor felt an odd sense of relief as Aveline gathered her skirts around her ankles and cautiously walked through the puddles of water towards him. Her hair was pinned unusually high and her cheeks dabbed with more rouge than he had ever seen on her. He guessed she'd just been shown around the ballroom as Josephine's "coloured friend" and was now wandering aimlessly as some form of escape. The blonde woman was always trying to appear more modern, even if she wanted nothing to do with Aveline.

Aveline hesitated as she towered over his cowering form. She still had to be presentable when she left and the puddle of water was not going to make that easy. Her eyes moved from Connor to the puddle of water and vomit and back to the manservant once more. She couldn't bring herself to sit down and merely pulled her skirts higher as she stepped around the bucket.

"Are you alright?" she asked. It was a stupid question. He was obviously not alright, but Aveline didn't know what else to say. Connor made a slight, slow nod that took Aveline a few seconds to make sure he even moved. Aveline's brow furrowed in concern. Crouching next him, she rested her hand gently on the back of his clammy neck, water soaking the hems of her dress. His skin was hot to the touch and Aveline almost wanted to tear her hand away. Connor retched. Thinking quickly, Aveline grabbed the upturned bucket and held it under his head. Vomit splattered against the wooden bucket as Connor heaved what was left of his small breakfast.

Aveline rubbed light circles into his neck to sooth him, too afraid to let her hand touch his back. "Are you just ill or…" Aveline's voice trailed off, unwilling to finish her sentence. She had seen men react like this to violent whippings before but she couldn't bring herself to believe that Édouard, no matter how vile he was, would do that. Yet Connor's silence was anything but reassuring. His eyes became cloudy and he stared at the tiles without blinking. Aveline's heart wrenched.

She sat quickly, her heels tucked under her legs and her wide skirt splashing in the vast puddles of water. The lady brought Connor to her chest, holding him tightly with the bucket in her lap, and stroked his dark hair reassuringly. A wave of guilt overcame her. Taking a deep breath, she mustered up the courage to speak.

Connor beat her to it. "I'm sorry, m'dame…" he mumbled. "Really sorry."

Aveline nearly choked on her surprised. "No. You did nothing wrong. I'll talk to someone about the mess—"

"Not that. For _Lundi_, when I …" Connor stopped, his throat overcome by wet coughs. "I just don't want to get you in trouble for … being around me …" At least, that was one of the reasons. He couldn't remember what had made him snap anymore. Whether it was just simply that or a mixture of repressed rage and frustration was beyond him. Aveline made a quiet sound like a laugh and played with a loose strand of his hair.

"It's okay," she cooed. "You don't have to worry about me. I can look after myself. And I'll take care of you as well."

Connor stiffened as his stomach lurched. He wasn't sure if it was from her words or if he was going to vomit again. His hands started to tremble and he was certain he could feel another scalding tear form.

It had been so long since anyone had cared.

Aveline rested her head on his, holding him as closely as possible without hurting him. The party was forgotten, as was the water that seeped into her dress and petticoats. Connor was far more important than glasses of champagne and a series of droning speeches. Taking a glance at the portrait above the mantle, Aveline sighed and muttered, "I'll talk to Edouard."

Had Connor the strength, he would have protested. But as his eyes drooped and his limbs became heavier he simply couldn't be bothered. He lazily lifted his shaking hands to tug at a long, lilac ribbon on Aveline's dress. Aveline could have sworn he groaned in ascent. Either that or he was simply marvelling at her ribbons. She would talk to his master whether he liked it or not.


	10. TEN

**AN: This is a really short filler. I'm sorry it's not longer but I needed to bridge the previous and next chapters together and it didn't fit with chapter 11. Also, thank you to the anon who corrected my French! I can't believe I left out the s in 'est'. That is so embarrassing... I shall have to go through all my chapters and get rid of the accent on Edouard's name (even though my name guide told me otherwise.)**

**In which there is an unwanted return**

Summer was officially over. It had been for nearly two weeks but now that the Madame de Grandpré and the heir were returning, the season of freedom had truly gone. The house was prepared. All the surfaces were polished, the paintings straightened and the curtains artfully draped. The staff had wasted no time in making sure the chateau was up to the Madame's abnormally high standards. Aveline had remained in her room for most of it, determined to keep her small sanctuary the way she wanted it. After all, it would be the only place she would get respite from her family for a long time.

As the gaudy carriage was driven along the road to the house, Aveline and Morgane stood side by side on the grand staircase at the entrance, watching. Morgane had no need to be there but she knew Aveline wouldn't be able to handle it on her own – no matter how strong a front she put on. And so there she was; her arm linked with her friend's as they waited. She could already feel Aveline start to tremble. Her face remained hard and emotionless, the same expression she always put on in the company of her stepmother. Morgane gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. Aveline tore her eyes away from the approaching carriage to smile at her svelte friend.

"Ça va, chérie?" Morgane asked. She was answered with a slight nod. As the woman nodded, Morgane caught sight of a reddened splotch on her right cheek. Frowning, she took Aveline's chin between her fingers and turned her head to face her. Her cheek was puffy and red. The corner of her eyes was blacked and a thin scratch lined her jaw. Morgane gasped.

"What happened? How did you get that?"

"Nothing. I just… I fell down in the garden."

"What rot!"

"Morgane, please," Aveline begged, her voice becoming strained. Morgane pursed her lips and released her friend. Folding her hands in front of her, Morgane silently cursed the man who did it –and it was no doubt a man. It was probably that pitiful servant Aveline had been so kind to. He probably had enough of her and decided to lash out. Morgane's anger boiled.

"I don't know what you see in him," Morgane spat.

"In who?"

"In that bloody Indian. He's nothing but a peasant and a savage. I know you think that you and he have some sort of connection because of your colour, but he is nothing but danger! I don't want to find out that you've been murdered and your scalp is on display for the entire nobility to see!"

"He wouldn't do that."

"How do you know? They're all capable of violence! He is no different."

Aveline's eyes dropped. Even though she knew the truth, she knew it would only be ignored. Everyone, even Morgane (who had taken pleasure in making fun of Edouard since they were children), believed that Édouard would never strike anyone who didn't deserve it. And that would be all her confession would be reduced to: either she deserved it or she was lying.

She turned her attention back to the carriage that was now parked in front of the staircase, hoping to drop the conversation. A footman stepped off the carriage and swiftly opened the door, holding out his hand to the graceful woman who strode out. They were home. They were finally home.

Aveline wanted nothing more than to run.


	11. ELEVEN

**A/N:** To those who have played AC:Liberation, the characterization of Aveline's parents are very different in this fic than in the game. I know. This is just because the plot needed them to behave in a certain way. However I will keep Aveline's father as similar as I can with minor adjustments to help move the plot along.

And now we go back to some more light-hearted chapters.

* * *

**In which there is an unusually heavy cream tart**

They were hidden from view, tucked inside one of the small sitting rooms that branched off the long hall. It was rarely used and in an area only visited by staff – a perfect meeting place. The curtains were drawn, the bright sunlight coloured purple as it tried to peek through the drapes. As invisible as they were, Aveline couldn't help the flutters of anxiety she felt whenever she heard a noise that wasn't her own.

Connor stood barely a metre from her now, hands at his side and his face blank in thought. He was translating her last words, no doubt. Three months was not enough time to become fluent in a foreign language, no matter how much practice he had before arriving. His dull eyes, sunken from exhaustion, flickered briefly as he finally understood. Reaching across the space between them, he took her hand. Their fingers interlocking as Connor gave her a short nod.

"It will be better later," he muttered. His normally hard expression softened ever so slightly. Aveline mustered a smile in return. She nodded in agreement, lowering her head and focussing on their joined hands. "I'll make sure of it," Connor added, his voice unusually determined. Aveline giggled. She wasn't sure if he was serious or not.

"Thank you," Aveline said as she lifted her head, her smile a little more genuine. "For everything."

Connor nodded again. The woman had managed to wedge her way under his skin. He still didn't completely like her (there were many times when he just wanted to hit her or push her down the stairs) but he couldn't help the pit of acid that formed in his stomach when she was hurting or that bubbling sensation in his chest when she laughed. They were stupid emotions, he thought, just worthless and distracting. But that didn't make them any less _there_.

When Aveline slid her fingers out from his, Connor fought the temptation to snatch them back. He wasn't supposed to touch her, even when he had her permission. Aveline stepped towards the door slowly, her hands cradled in front of her. Looking back at Connor, she smiled. "Well, lunch awaits."

"I'll be there."

"Serving," Aveline corrected.

Connor shrugged. Chuckling, Aveline left the room and walked down the deserted hall to the awaiting party in the colonnade. The thought that the servant would be there, even if it was only to serve her, was oddly reassuring.

* * *

A rug was set across the sloping grass under a large tree. The canopy shaded those who sat beneath from the sun that peaked through the looming clouds. Two weeks into autumn and the winds had already decided to turn cold. The nobles on the rug sat wrapped in thin coats to keep out the chill, though they hardly noticed. Platters of cold meats and cakes were laid on the rug with more being held by servants standing at the side. The small party lounged across the rug, food and drinks in hand as they chattered.

It was their last chance, Josephine had argued, to enjoying being in each other's company outside. She had invited all the usual suspects (her brother, Morgane, Elise and, of course, Aveline) but they were joined by two of Edouard's friends. One, a tall and lanky man with a flat nose and straw hair called Albert, had joined him in the new world. The other was from abroad – Belgium, he claimed – and was visiting out of sheer boredom. He was the near opposite of the other addition: average height, muscular build, strong features and a shock of neat, dark hair he had pulled into a slick ponytail.

It was clear from the way Josephine had sat close to him and laughed madly at whatever he said that she was more than interested. Besotted might be a better word. Aveline watched them out of the corner of her eye on occasion, trying not to laugh at Josephine's pathetic attempts to flirt.

"Oh Marc," she sighed, shimmying closer to the handsome Belgian. "I had no idea that was so!"

Aveline wanted to vomit. Instead she rolled her eyes and took another ship of the champagne she had been handed. Morgane lay next to her, her head in Aveline's lap. The brunette was oddly disinterested in the Belgian and instead played with a long curl that had escaped her coifed hair, pouting. Her glass of champagne dangerously low, Aveline hoisted her glass above her head for a servant to fill. Within seconds one had poured in more of the golden liquid. She needed to be so much more drunk for this.

Morgane huffed, her red lips becoming thin as she chewed on them in boredom. The pair was excluded from the conversation as both were unable to sneak in words between Edouard's constant boasting and Josephine's cooing. Elise was constantly quiet but even she seemed engaged. Occasionally Aveline swore she saw Marc glance in her direction, offering her a smile before turning back to the conversation. The lady was confused and took another swig of her champagne.

Connor walked around the party, offering a tray of angel cakes that had been carefully iced and decorated by the fat cook. Albert took two greedily when Edouard and Josephine waved the servant away, stuffing his face with the light cake. Josephine crinkled her face in disgust. Bending low, Connor held out the tray to Aveline and Morgane. Aveline smiled sweetly as she took enough for her and her friend. It was hard for her not to wink overtly to embarrass him as she would with any of her other friends. She was just glad he was there. When she thought no one was watching she would watch him as he sorted through trays of food.

He only saw her do it once. He frowned as she silently chuckled into her glass. Morgane was too lost in her own world to notice.

As Josephine turned her attention to her brother, Marc cleared his throat. "I do believe Josephine has neglected to introduce us," he stated, a smirk forming on his square face. Aveline looked up from her glass, eyes blinking. She raised an eyebrow in confusion. Marc laughed softly. "What is your name, mademoiselle?"

"Aveline de Grandpré."

"Your name suits you," he smiled. "Although it does not live up to your beauty."

A blush rose to Aveline's cheeks. Eyes widening in shock, she looked down at her lap. The only people who had ever told her that were her parents. What business could a foreigner have in telling her?

"Thank you," she mumbled.

"I am Baron Marc Van Den Bosshe. It is a pleasure to meet you." Marc extended his hand in greeting. Out of habit Aveline held out her own. The baron held it delicately, as if it were porcelain, and kissed it. His lips lingered on her knuckles for a few seconds. Aveline flushed red and quickly withdrew her hand. Morgane looked up at Aveline and upon noticing her reddened face and the smile that graced the baron's, she dragged herself into a sitting position. Excusing herself, she moved to sit by Elise, winking at Aveline discretely.

Aveline swallowed nervously.

Marc smiled warmly and moved closer to her, so that their conversation wouldn't be as easily overheard. He introduced himself and his position, allowing Aveline to talk about herself for once. Marc delved into stories of travelling and politics. It felt odd to be paid attention to, to be talked to as an equal. It was stranger still to have any intelligent conversation at all. The heavy weight of boredom lifted and Aveline grinned widely.

They did not go unnoticed. Whilst Morgane would sneak a peek ever so often, they were constantly observed by another: Connor. A cream tart he had just been told to serve was held in front of him as he scowled at the conversing pair. His muscles tightened as an unknown rage boiled under his skin, rooting him to the spot. Another servant nudged him forward desperately. He eventually stomped forward, his eyes fixed on Marc as he made another witty comment that caused Aveline to giggle.

As Connor passed Marc on his way to Edouard, he let the tart slip from his fingers. It dropped slowly and neatly landed on Marc's shoulder, smearing his red jacket in cream and sugar. Marc yelped in surprised and anguish, standing quickly. His mouth fell wide open as he turned to see the benevolent servant.

"You clumsy oaf!" he bellowed.

Connor ducked down to pick up the platter that had once held the large tart. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of Aveline. She sat rigidly, a look of shock on her face. A twinge of anger made her neck contract. Connor didn't care. He had done his job. He stood with the platter in hand as Josephine marched over and smacked him. He hardly felt it. It was nothing compared to his master's beatings. She screeched insults and 'how dare you's before howling at her brother to punish him.

Connor didn't feel the least bit afraid.

* * *

They hadn't used the whip. Instead he had been dragged (somewhat willingly) to a secluded area of the garden and beaten by two of the other servants. By hand. His nose was broken and blood streamed down his face. He could taste it on his tongue. His chest and stomach were most certainly bruised and when Connor ran his fingers along it, he swore one of his ribs were broken.

But he didn't care. Not one bit.

Aveline had found him behind the chateau, leaning against the stone wall next to the servant's entrance. He sat staring at his hands with a blank face and a series of bruises. Normally she would feel sorry for him, but today she was furious. Growling, she stomped her foot to catch his attention. He looked up slowly, his expression didn't change. That only made her angrier.

"What was that for?" she cried.

"What?" Connor asked, brushing the question off with ease.

"Don't play dumb! You dropped that on purpose! I saw you!"

Connor shrugged. "He deserved it."

"WHY? He was nothing but nice!" Aveline was seething. Balling her fists, she restrained from attacking him herself. "Why is it that for the first time in my life I have had someone genuinely interested me, you throw a tart at him? Do you despise me that much?"

"I don't hate you."

"Then why did you have to ruin my one fucking chance at actually making a friend and possibly leaving this fucking country? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?"

By now Connor had gotten to his feet. He towered over the woman, his face contorted in anger. "Hold your tongue. I did you a service."

"A service? You threw a tart over the only possible suitor I have ever had!"

"Him? He was nothing but words! He only wanted to use you!"

"And how would you know that?"

Connor fell silent. He couldn't answer her in a way that wouldn't make her laugh in his face. He suddenly felt embarrassed, more embarrassed than ever. Taking a step back, he hung his head as he tried to muster some form of coherent answer. Aveline huffed in disgust. "Thank you, Connor. Thank you so, so much."

Connor's posture shrunk. "I don't like it when other men talk to you," he whispered.

Aveline made a sound like a choking cat. Looking up briefly, Connor saw Aveline's cheek flush magenta before she slapped him hard. He winced as the bruise on his cheek was impacted by her hand.

"YOU IDIOT." She screamed, gathering her dress in her fists and stomping away from him. Connor nursed his cheek and pouted. He didn't understand women. Especially her.

Oh how he wanted to push her in front of a horse.


End file.
